


jump into the heat (falling off the ceiling)

by stupidwithu



Series: Passed Torch [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Peter Parker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fanfiction, Fluff, Gay Harley Keener, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Harley Keener as Iron Lad, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Passed Torch AU, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Peter Parker, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:53:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidwithu/pseuds/stupidwithu
Summary: “Shit,” Harley whispers, and Peter can feel the hot breath it carries. Smooth. It dances over Peter’s lips and, subconsciously, he parts them.“Is this the part where we kiss?”Or: five times Harley and Peter almost kiss, and one time they finally do
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Series: Passed Torch [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696651
Comments: 12
Kudos: 251
Collections: Parkner Week 2019





	jump into the heat (falling off the ceiling)

**Author's Note:**

> if you don't know, Passed Torch is a post-FFH AU I made where Peter hides out in Tennessee with Harley Keener after Mysterio reveals his identity to the world. that's pretty much all that's important for the context of this 5+1
> 
> also, I'm posting this late but it WAS a part of Parkner Week 2019 over on Tumblr

**1)**

“Quit goin’ easy on me,” Harley insists.

“I’m not!” Peter lies. He was definitely holding back – but in his defense, he wasn’t expecting Harley to land the punch.

As casually as he can manage, Peter swipes a hand across his lips. His fingertips come back wet and stained red. He runs his tongue over the surface of the small split, biting back the metallic taste with a smile. Harley frowns, crossing both arms over his chest.

The two just recently started sparring together. With Harley finally ready to test his suit’s tech, and Peter desperate for any action he can manage lately, it just seemed like an obvious next step. They usually do it outside, on the pavement just by the garage door – Peter never goes far – but Harley’s mom got home a few hours early and neither boys wanted to risk her seeing the vigilante. Instead, they stayed in, pushing Peter’s temporary bed into the space between Harley’s desk and his Mustang to give themselves room.

Peter cranes his neck, shakes his head a little, then raises both hands to his face.

“C’mon,” he laughs. “Again!”

Harley rolls his eyes when Peter tells him he’s _doing great, Harls_.

“No bullshit this time,” he orders. “and don’t call me Harls.”

In two swift movements, Harley closes the space between himself and his superhuman companion. With his suited arm, he strikes Peter’s palm. He’s expecting Peter to handle it easily, even though the force of the punch jerks Harley’s entire arm, up to the shoulder.

He doesn’t.

Peter falls first, like a statue. His back smacks the concrete and his head follows suit. Fortunately for Harley, he crashes much more gracefully. He breaks his fall with his hands, which land with surprising weight by each side of Peter’s head. It’s a little unsteady, since his gauntlet adds a few inches to his right side, but he manages. He gets tripped up in peter’s legs though, his lower half entangled in the space between them.

Waves of blonde fluff spill past Harley’s ears from the force of the fall, but a thin black headband keeps it from flapping across his forehead like it sometimes does. Peter waits a few seconds for Harley's face to come into focus, a high-pitched wheeze filling the silence.

“Is that all you got?” Peter tries to laugh, but he’s breathless.

Harley scowls. “Your fault. Maybe _now_ you’ll treat me like a real partner…”

Maybe it’s their sudden proximity, or the connotation of the word ‘partner’ – no, certainly it’s the deep southern accent that carries it. Regardless, Peter feels his cheeks go warm. He’s desperate to shield his blush, but he can’t raise either of his arms without brushing some part of Harley’s body.

“Right,” he gulps, instead. “Got it. Underestimated you.”

Harley sighs, his annoyance seemingly dissipating. He attempts to adjust his weight, but the bottom of his sweatshirt gets caught on the waistband of Peter’s jeans. The fabric rides up around Harley’s waist and the warmth of his skin makes Peter twitch.

Peter doesn’t mean to yelp when Harley loses his balance _again_ , but he does. He catches himself – again – but this time it’s with his forearms and it’s far from smooth. The slip completely diminishes any space he and a still-immobile Peter previously had between them.

“Shit,” Harley whispers, and Peter can feel the hot breath it carries. _Smooth_. It dances over Peter’s lips and, subconsciously, he parts them.

“Is this the part where we kiss?”

Peter’s eyes go wide. Initially, he tenses, but something about the way Harley chuckles makes his muscles relax. It’s loud and a little forced, but the smile looks real. His body shakes with it, rising and falling against Peter’s torso.

Still hovering over Peter, Harley licks his lips, and the younger boy can’t help the way he stares. Peter doesn't know if it's Harley being a flirtatious dick or just casual contemplation. Either way, he's captivated. Harley’s tongue slips back into his mouth, leaving his lips glossy and pink and _so close_. He must notice Peter’s sudden obsession, because he offers a similar gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching into a close-lipped smile.

“You’re still bleedin’,” Harley notes. Peter wants him to stop looking at his lips like _that_. 

“You’re… really close right now.”

Peter’s squeak cuts the tension, but there’s an uncertainty that lingers.

“Sorry,” Harley comes to, his eyes snapping up guiltily to meet Peter’s. “Are you okay?”

Harley raises himself on his hands, then tosses himself over Peter, landing clumsily at his side. Peter shutters, briefly mourning the loss of Harley’s body on his.

“I, uh- I don’t know,” he answers, honestly.

* * *

**2)**

Ever since Peter was young, he’s had a hard time falling asleep in unfamiliar places. May thinks it started when he was four, when he spent the night with her and Ben for the first time. Even before they were forced to tell him his parents weren’t coming home, the poor kid refused to give in. She’s probably right, but Peter always tells her to stop psychoanalyzing him.

When Peter was eleven, he had his first sleepover. Luckily, Ned was far too excited to care if they slept at all (neither of them did). There were a few other one-time instances that knocked Peter’s sleeping schedule off course – like school field trips and nights at the Tower with Mr. Stark – but Peter always got used to the places that mattered, eventually.

Lately, it’s the mint green couch in Rose Hill, Tennessee that keeps Peter up at night. Well, _the couch_ , doesn’t keep him up (though it does make his neck stiff). It’s little things. Sometimes, he accidentally fixates too hard on the low hum of the lab’s AC unit and can’t get it out of his head. Sometimes, Harley’s sister, Abby, plays loud music in her room after midnight. Peter must admit, the kid’s got pretty good music taste, but it’s always blasting at full volume and impossible to sleep through. Harley’s usually quiet upstairs, unless he’s fighting with his mom, in which case Peter tries hard not to listen in (it doesn’t always work, but that’s not Peter’s place).

Regardless, Peter finds himself awake most nights. 

Tonight, he’s staring up at the garage ceiling, straining his eyes to try and make out some sort of detail in the darkness, and he’s got MJ on his mind. He thinks about her a lot. She was understanding when he told her he couldn’t come back to Queens (of course she was, it’s MJ) and she insisted he let her go. Actually, she let him go. 

_“I love you, Peter,”_ she’d said. _“our timing just isn’t right. It’s okay.”_

She seemed genuinely okay with that, and Peter knows that it’s true, but he can’t help the guilt that bubbles up in his throat when he thinks about her, or even about Liz, about _Harley_. Spider-man is always going to get in the way. Or maybe that’s just Peter.

His brain's fully prepared to wander its dark path, but something pulls him from his thoughts.

“Peter?” Harley. “I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“You didn’t.”

“You, uh,” Harley makes a motion to turn on the lights, but he doesn’t. “You mind if I work on some stuff? I’ll keep it down.”

Peter has to squint to see Harley from where he’s cowering by the staircase. It’s an unusual stance for the boy to take – so insecure – Peter thinks.

“Of course not." It's _his_ garage. "Can’t sleep?”

Peter tries really hard not to let his face show his surprise when Harley gets close. His hair is untamed and all over the place – not _too_ unusual for Harley, but evidently the result of frantic hands running through it (Peter’s familiar). He’s pale – also normal, but his eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are irritated and tear-stained.

Peter doesn’t mean to scan his body the way he does, but he can’t help it. Harley’s shirtless, his chest littered with freckles and a thin layer of sweat. He wraps his arms around himself protectively, and Peter jerks his head up in a silent apology.

“Are you okay?” Peter thought _he_ was spiraling.

Harley hesitates. He’s tempted to lie, say he’s fine, but he finds himself wondering why he even came down here in the first place. He tries the explanation that it’s got everything to do with his equipment and nothing to do with Peter, but he knows that’s not true either. He meets himself halfway.

“Not really.” It comes out more broken than he means it to, and Harley hates himself for it.

Peter frowns, patting the space besides him on the couch before he even realizes what he’s doing. He tries to shake his expression, offering Harley a sad smile instead. “Wanna talk about it?”

With a shuttering breath, Harley drags himself the rest of the way, collapsing lazily by Peter’s side. He lands closer than he intended, but can’t bring himself to move. Peter doesn’t seem to mind. As a matter of fact, he leans into it.

“Not really,” Harley repeats.

“That's okay.”

Slouched down, both boys notice, Harley’s head is level with Peter’s shoulder. It’s an unusual height between the two of them, not that either are complaining.

“Can I?”

Harley doesn’t wait for a response before dropping himself onto Peter. Peter makes the tiniest grunt of surprise before a soft, breathy laugh escapes his lips. He shifts himself a little so Harley fits more comfortably.

They stay this way for a few minutes, minds racing. Peter takes calculated breaths, using all his strength to refrain from bouncing, shifting, or shaking in any way that might startle the boy in his arms. He wants to know what’s wrong, but he won’t ask again. He just wants to help. Maybe this is helping.

“Hey, Peter...?” Harley breaks the silence just as Peter’s muscles start to ache.

In a sluggish, hesitant movement, Harley raises his head. Peter doesn’t move, waiting for Harley to take control, and he does. He hooks two fingers under Peter’s chin to get his attention, gently urging Peter to look him in the eyes. He does, for a moment, but he finds his eyes drifting to the freckles that litter the bridge of Harley’s nose. Then, the shape of his lips, just barely visible underneath the icy glow of Harley’s minifridge ( _romantic_ , truly).

“Yeah?” Peter pants. The movement sends a shock of pain through his spine, up his neck. Harley’s hand trembles just beneath Peter’s jaw.

Harley takes a deep breath, and Peter closes his eyes against the feeling of it.

“Thank you,” is all he says, folding his body at the waist so he can drop his head into Peter’s lap. The latter finds his fingers tangled in Harley’s hair like it’s second nature.

“For what?” Peter questions, but Harley’s long gone.

Peter follows, his earlier apprehensions vanishing with each of Harley’s sleeping breaths.

* * *

**3)**

Harley comes home later than usual Friday night, pulling into the driveway around 9. He parks the truck lazily, expecting to find Peter fiddling with the Spidey suit or reprogramming Harley’s AI (he’s told Peter a thousand times that he doesn’t need his help, but that hasn’t stopped him from going in when Harley’s not home to fix his mistakes). He’s surprised, to say the least, when he doesn’t see Peter at all, the garage submerged in an uncharacteristic darkness.

“Peter?” Harley calls out, something between a whisper and a scream.

He’s already wondering how the hell to fill out a missing person's report for a world-renowned _mass murderer_ when he hears it: a quiet hum of acknowledgement from deep within the room, where Harley spots the Peter-shaped clump of blankets.

He’s at Peter’s side in just a few strides, taking the dark blue fleece between his fingertips and tossing it to the ground. He claps, and the garage is instantly illuminated in bright white light. Peter whimpers in objection, rubbing his eyes childishly.

“What the hell? It’s 90 degrees, Peter."

Peter’s got a second blanket wrapped around him, too, but at least Harley can see his face now. His knees are pressed tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, all beneath the thick wool of _Harley’s_ blanket, in an attempt to stay warm. He looks sick, and _small_.

Harley raises a keen eyebrow.

“Hey…” Peter croaks. “You…”

“Hey, you,” Harley mimics, crouching at Peter’s side. “You okay?”

There’s not much of the boy Harley can clearly see, but if his sweaty forehead and flushed skin is anything to go by, something’s definitely wrong.

Peter nods, letting out a gentle “Woah,” when the movement makes him dizzy.

With a scoff, Harley presses the back of his hand against Peter’s rosy cheek. His skin is dry and hot to the touch. Peter flinches.

“Wanna try that again?”

“S’cold,”

“No, it isn't.”

“M’fine,” He tries, then. “Leave me alone.”

Peter shivers. He goes to pull the warm fabric tighter to his limbs, but Harley isn’t having it. The older boy tugs it off easily, ignoring Peter’s petulant protests. He hooks both of his arms beneath Peter’s, hoisting the unwieldy sick teen into a sitting position.

Palms on either side of his own face, Peter presses hard against his temples. “Don’t move so much,”

“Sorry.”

Harley waits until he’s sure Peter won’t topple over, then lets him go. He settles on his knees before the couch, squeezing himself into the space between Peter’s legs. Peter sniffles, dragging a slow, expectant gaze to Harley’s hand, which now rests on his knee. He giggles when Harley pulls away.

“How long you been feelin’ like this?” Harley presses, now prodding his forehead and neck.

“Don’t remember…”

Without warning, Peter drops.

Harley catches him in an uncomfortable almost-hug. Peter immediately latches onto him, collapsing against his chest. He hiccups, muffling a feverish sob into Harley’s t-shirt.

Harley sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth. _Jesus_. 

“What am I gonna do with you, Darlin’?” Harley whispers into Peter’s hair, and he's genuinely wondering.

Peter clumsily pushes up against Harley’s chest to force himself upright, fastening his arms around Harley’s neck as soon as he’s able. He takes the fabric of Harley’s collar in his grip, guiding – forcing – him off his knees to meet Peter’s stature. _Even sick, he’s still strong as hell._

If it weren't for the stains, you'd never even know Peter was just crying. He's smiling now, eyes flickering between Harley's and his lips. He presses their foreheads together, purposefully. Harley fidgets under Peter’s clammy skin.

“I could think of a few ideas,” he mumbles, pressing further.

“What the _fuck_?” Harley laughs. Their noses are being squished together now. He can feel Peter’s fever against his skin, and it's— it's... something. It's a warmth Harley would typically enjoy, but Peter's still shivering. Also, it's Peter. It's _Peter..._ but he's not in his right mind. _Right?_

“Peter, stop.”

Their heads tilt then, in perfect synchronization without trying. Peter makes a move to close the space between them, but instead, he pulls away completely, doubling over at the waist in a fit of harsh, body-wracking coughs.

Harley winces.

“Shh,” he offers, trying to simultaneously soothe and quiet him.

Harley rubs his hand in small circles on Peter’s back, rather helplessly, as the coughing tapers off.

“There, there, _princess_.” He mocks. “I’ve got ya,”

* * *

**4)**

The wooden staircase creaks beneath Peter’s sock-clad feet with each anxious step. Harley’s a few stairs ahead, urging Peter along with a gentle tug at his fingertips. When Peter meets him at the top, Harley casually pulls him closer, interlocking their fingers. If Peter thinks anything of the contact, he doesn’t say.

“My mom won’t be home ‘til later,” Harley explains. “You can sleep in my bed tonight. Just don’t leave my room ‘til I come get you, okay?”

Peter gulps. Nods.

He’s only been upstairs – in Harley’s actual house – once (when it was just them two, the day after Peter arrived) and he’s petrified of getting Harley in trouble. Besides, sleeping in his bed seems like something far more intimate than either of them are ready to admit they’re desperate for. Despite his feelings for the boy, Harley’s bedroom is the last place Peter wants to be.

It’s also where he ends up, just a few minutes later: sitting cross legged on Harley’s bed sheets (dark green plaid, and surprisingly soft).

“I’m gonna sleep in the living room, okay?”

Harley makes a start towards the door, but something urges Peter to stop him.

“Wait!”

From the doorway, Harley looks back, waiting. Peter panics.

“I, uh— I just, I wanted to say thank you. And I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Harley makes his way back to Peter, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“You didn’t ask for any of this.”

Harley shakes his head, exhausted. It’s true, he didn’t ask for Peter to come to him that night. He never even would’ve thought of it. But that doesn’t mean he regrets it. Sure, the circumstances are far from ideal, but he really likes Peter, and he wants to help him. Harley tells him as such.

“Thank you,” Peter repeats, feeling dumb. “You’re just, so great, and you still manage to feel bad about a stupid uncomfortable couch when you already took me in, and you’ve done so much-”

“Please,” Harley cuts him off. “Stop actin’ like you’re a nuisance in my life, Peter, because that’s not what you are.”

In all the weeks Peter has spent in Rose Hill, there’s been very few times Harley has felt the need to talk to him in such a stern tone. Each time, Peter has been equally taken aback. Harley reminds him of Tony _all the time_ , but especially like this: kind, but jaded, and definitely not putting up with Peter’s bullshit.

“What am I, then?”

Leaning over the wooden frame, Harley easily towers over Peter’s sitting form. He has to crane his neck to make eye contact, but he refuses to break it. Peter, feeling bold, decides to meet him halfway. He leans forward, tilting his head to get a proper look at him; the two find themselves (for what feels like the hundredth time) separated by mere inches.

“What do you want to be?” Harley asks, genuinely.

_Anything_ , Peter thinks, _Everything_.

Harley's got a certain look in his eyes, one that burns Peter from the inside out and makes him think Harley might really kiss him this time.

Maybe he would’ve, if it weren’t for the bedroom door being flung open by a disgruntled pre-teen.

“Harley,” Abby accuses. “What the fu-”

* * *

**5)**

_Peter is pulled from sleep by the faint taste of cranberry and a delicate pressure on his lips. He melts into the kiss, eyes fluttering open when a hand reaches up the back of his neck and into the depths of his bedhead, pulling the ends of his hair between their fingertips and tugging._

“Harley,” _peter breathes, somehow knowing before he sees. He’s face to face – or rather, nose to nose – with the boy. Harley offers him an icy gaze, more intense and passionate than Peter’s ever seen it. He usually avoids it, though now he’s not sure why. It’s breathtaking._

_For a moment, Peter feels a little bit like he’s sleeping in someone else’s bed, but, slowly, he finds the smallest details to cling onto to make him feel grounded. Harley’s skin, for instance – on the back of Peter’s neck and his chest and his hands and his ankles – encloses Peter in a certain warmth. It’s nothing he’s used to, but Peter somehow knows it’s where he wants to be._

_Harley ducks suddenly, into the crook of Peter’s neck, and he finds three more things: Harley’s mop of blonde chaos that tickles Peter’s chin and gets caught on his lip, the smell of motor oil and vanilla that comes off him in waves, and_ God, oh God _, his lips._

“Peter,” _Harley moans into his neck as he kisses it, softly at first but then he’s smiling, nibbling at the skin. Peter feels like he’s on fire. He wraps his arms around Harley’s shoulders, pulling him closer in a way he hopes screams_ “don’t ever stop.”

_He doesn’t stop, lips traveling all down Peter’s chest and to his abdomen as Harley repeats his name, over and over with increasing volume until…_ “Parker!”

Peter jolts awake, his head shooting up from its makeshift pillow of his own arms, folded over each other and resting on the space just before his newest web formula. His movement rattles the glass beaker, but the sticky substance doesn’t budge.

“Mornin’,” Harley smiles, and suddenly Peter is very much _awake_ and very much embarrassed.

Peter’s breath gets caught in his throat. “Shit— I, uh— sorry,”

He’s having trouble looking Harley in the eyes. When he finally musters up the courage to try, he’s relieved to find the mechanic preoccupied. Harley’s slouched over his tablet, the blue glow of his suit’s coding reflecting in his glasses. The amber frames slide down his nose bridge as he types.

“No worries,” he assures, pushing them up again. “I’m almost done here. You can go to bed if you want.”

“I’m not tired anymore,” Peter blurts out without meaning to. “I mean—”

“Yeah, okay,” Harley intercedes. He chuckles, reaching over to push Peter’s web fluid to the side. He cocks his head in the direction of the couch, then, “Night, Sleepin' Beauty.”

Harley waits for Peter to begin his walk of shame, before shouting…

“Oh! But can you try to keep the sleep talking to a minimum this time? It’s really hard to concentrate when you keep moaning my name.”

* * *

**+1)**

It isn’t until the third “Harls…?” that the mechanic decides to roll out from beneath the Mustang and pay Peter some mind.

“Uh huh,” Harley hums, absentmindedly. His hands are covered in motor oil and grease, so he wipes them on his jeans as he stands, pulling himself up by the hood of the car.

“I need your help with something.”

Harley turns to face him, a fond smile spreading across his cheeks. Peter’s hanging upside down, fully suited in his freshly upgraded ensemble, a single string of web dangling from the ceiling. It’s still attached to his right wrist, Harley notices, and Peter wraps his fingers around the string delicately to steady himself. Redistributing his weight, Peter lets his left hand drop to the nape of his own neck to pull his mask up, so it rests in his hair, a flurry of chocolate waves poking out from beneath it.

“New formula’s no good,” Peter laughs. “I’m stuck.”

Abruptly, Peter extends his legs, planting both feet on the roof and tugging at his arm. Harley springs forward instinctively, ready to catch him, but the demonstration checks out. He’s stuck. The string connecting his right web shooter to Harley’s ceiling dances, but both ends remain perfectly intact.

Harley can’t help but laugh. _Dumbass_.

Close enough to Peter now, Harley takes the red and black fabric in his hands, pulling Peter’s mask off the rest of the way and making a fist around it. There’s a deep pink flush that’s started to creep up — down? — Peter’s neck now, and there’s a few bright blue veins decorating the space on Peter’s forehead that his unruly hair can’t cover when it’s falling victim to gravity. If Harley’s being honest, he looks kinda insane. Angry, almost, if it weren’t for the goofy grin that illuminates his face when Harley reaches out to ruffle his hair.

Harley also thinks he looks adorable, even like this. Hell, he isn’t sure there’s anything Peter could do that could make Harley think otherwise. God, he wants to kiss him.

Harley is _so tired_ of playing this game.

“What game?” Peter’s eyebrows furrow and his lip juts out just a little.

_Shit_.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harley fully intends to think long and hard about his next move – he really does – but then Peter tilts his head to the side with that little confused stare he does (You know, the one dogs do all the time that makes everyone in the room melt? That’s the one) and _fuck_ , Harley can’t take it anymore.

So, he kisses him.

Peter makes a noise Harley’s never heard – a squeak of surprise from the back of his throat – when Harley takes his bottom lip between his own. He kisses him in a way that’s soft and slow, but desperate, and so, so _real_ and Peter almost thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

The motion sends all the air in Peter’s lungs rushing out of his mouth and into Harley’s, but Peter doesn’t have time to contemplate it.

Harley smiles into the kiss before he parts, letting their lips linger for a few seconds. Peter wants to melt into the touch, memorize the feeling of Harley’s teeth against his lip, but it’s gone before he can form a coherent thought.

Harley takes a satisfied step back, just in time for Peter — eyes still closed and lips twitching — to collapse, surprisingly heavily, onto the ground at Harley’s feet.


End file.
